


Coffee

by Shadowstar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffee, Cuddles, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, oh god the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's after a case, and John and Lestrade have had too much coffee and too little sleep. Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee

There are many reasons why John doesn’t normally drink coffee in great amounts. One of the biggest was that he was still a bit sore after Sherlock had willfully given him coffee with sugar cubes that could have been drugged.

 

But that wasn’t _the_ biggest reason he didn’t drink great amounts of the bitter brew. No, the biggest reason was that coffee had become something special, something to really be shared with only one person.

 

Despite Sherlock’s continued poking and prodding on the subject, he and the Detective Inspector that he met twice a week—more, if they had the time for it—were not dating. Not that he wouldn’t mind it, of course; Greg was an attractive man. A _very_ attractive man. You’d have to be blind not to see it. And he thinks that Greg might be interested. Might be, being the key words there. He’s struck up enough of a friendship with the man that he doesn’t want to risk it on something that could possibly only go one way.

 

There are times, though, when a case becomes long enough that tea just isn’t enough anymore. That’s when he lets himself be talked into the functional Styrofoam cup that Sally hands him with a sympathetic look before taking a scalding sip of her own.

 

Cases like that, the crash afterwards is always worse than usual; he’s usually so wired and sleep-drunk that he finds himself to be rather manic and loopy. Sometimes, he’ll start to giggle uncontrollably, earning a sigh with Greg—he’d insisted after their third coffee not-date—telling Sherlock that it was time to take him home to sleep it off. He’ll protest, but the high will always last just long enough to get his coat and shoes off before he falls face first onto his bed, where he stays for a good twelve-or-so hours.

 

Other times, he will simply vibrate, fidgeting nervously, which will usually lead to a similar reaction from Greg and a near-identical crash.

 

This time feels…. Different, some how. The factors are all almost the same; a long case, no one getting too terribly hurt—though, he’s got an annoying cut in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, and a scrape across his knuckles—and, of course, too much coffee.

 

The first major difference comes when he finds himself in Greg’s office, sitting quietly with the man who has become a close friend, waiting on Sherlock to finish whatever it was that the man had had to do. The two of them had been talking over the case, both of them a little off with the amount of coffee they’d consumed over the past three days, and the general lack of sleep. But that particular topic has run rather dry, and they were sitting in soft silence for a long while, when John hisses, having aggravated the cut between his fingers.

 

“Everything alright?” Greg asks, concerned, brown eyes surprisingly sharp.

 

John blinks for a moment before shrugging.

 

“Guess so; managed to cut myself, is all. Scraped up my knuckles a bit, too. Better than some things that have happened to me in the course of a case,” John explains in a rapid-fire fashion, jittery and suddenly feeling nervous.

 

“Let me see?” Greg offers, motioning towards John’s hand before offering his own.

 

John doesn’t even think, simply puts his hand in Greg’s. He can feel his cheeks warm a little as Greg’s fingers curl around his, drawing his hand closer so that he can get a better look at it. He isn’t sure why he holds his breath, why his heart skips a beat when those beautiful brown eyes he’s caught himself staring into a time or two focus solely on his hand. But if he isn’t sure why those things happen in the first place, he finds his answer in the way Greg looks at him warmly, with some deep emotion that John is terrified to name in case it’s not true, before pressing a warm, apologetic kiss to the split skin over his knuckles, his thumb stroking gently over John’s fingers.

 

Oh. _Oh_. Bloody _hell_. When had he fallen in love with Greg Lestrade?

 

There is a hesitance when Greg draws back a little, not letting go of John’s hand, even while he watches John gently, carefully, anxiously.

 

“Better?” Greg asks, voice soft, an odd sort of fear in his face.

 

John is just tired enough, just wired and out of it enough, to throw caution completely to the wind. He curls his own fingers around Greg’s as he stands, moving around the desk so that it is no longer between them.

 

“Not quite. Got another sore spot, see; think it needs the same medicine,” John explains, voice slightly shaky and giddy, and he knows it won’t be long before he crashes and burns spectacularly.

 

Greg seems startled, blinking up at him, almost owlishly, and if this had been one of those times that John just couldn’t stop laughing, Greg likely would have ended up with a lap full of giggly, giddy, out-of-it John Watson.

 

“Yeah? Where’s the other one?” Greg sounds dubious, glancing over John’s form slowly, making John’s breath catch for _other_ reasons, now; reasons that he is sadly far, far too tired to explore.

 

With his free hand, John carefully touches his bottom lip; it has been cold and very, very dry recently. On top of which, he’d just spent the last four hours they’d been working on the case standing in the cold wind. At some point, his lips had gotten rather chapped. While chap stick had cured the worst of it, his bottom lip had still split a little, painfully down the middle.

 

“Here,” he says, his tongue darting out to ease the sting a little.

 

He knows he’s guessed right—thank fuck; Greg was too important to lose to him acting on a simple one-sided attraction—when he hears Greg’s breath catch, and the hand around his own tightens ever-so-slightly.

 

Greg stands slowly his eyes on the split, keeping a hold of John’s hand. Their clasped hands end up grabbed between them as he moves in closer, his other hand coming up so that his thumb can gently stroke over John’s bottom lip. John can hear him swallow, nervous, before he speaks, low and rough.

 

“Here?” He questions, thumb worrying the split.

 

John nods, lips parting as he breathes gently over Greg’s thumb. Greg hesitates, looking torn, as though he isn’t sure what he means to do. So John sighs softly, giving the hand still holding his a gentle squeeze, encouraging. Still, though, Greg continues to look torn, hesitating again as he finally breaks the silence that seems to have stretched out between them.

 

“John—“ The doctor cuts the inspector  off, squeezing his hand again.

 

“Kiss me already, would you?” He breathes out, exasperated and giddy.

 

Greg smiles softly, briefly, before he shifts his hand from tracing over John’s lip with his thumb to gently cup his cheek, obliging the doctor’s demand. The kiss is gentle, chaste, mindful of the state their bodies are currently in, as well as John’s split lip. Greg’s fingers stroke over John’s face, then, his thumb tracing warmly over John’s cheekbone. He pulls away gently, then, chuckling a little when John sways to follow the movement.

 

“Easy, darlin’; don’t need you falling over and hitting your head,” Greg gently chides before gently drawing John to lean against him, the hand that had been on the shorter man’s face shifting so that he could wrap his arm around the man.

 

“You would have caught me,” John slurs, blinking as his exhaustion and the crash hit him all at once. “Damn…” He mutters, letting his head fall comfortably against the curve of Greg’s shoulder.

 

“I think the both of us are about done in,” Greg agrees, letting John’s hand go, finally, to wrap his other arm around him.

 

“More than,” John agrees with a heavy sigh, shifting to pull away, only to have the other man’s arms tighten around him. John’s brow furrows, and he blinks. “Greg?”

 

“C’mon, to the couch,” Greg urges, gently moving them towards the piece of furniture in the corner of his office.

 

The thing was old and ugly but comfortable as hell. It was one of the few perks of having his own office, being able to put something there that he could nap on if needed. And he often did have a need to, unfortunately, thanks to his job.

 

John lets Greg guide them, not really trusting his feet not to get in the way. He finds himself reluctant to let Greg go when they finally make it, but he does so anyway, watching as Greg removes his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the chair that John had been sitting in while they talked. He then moves to gently help John out of his own jacket. Greg’s hands are warm, even through John’s thick jumper. Greg tosses his jacket over the back of the same chair as the suit jacket, shifting to sit and then sprawl across the couch, putting the one pillow that was on the thing behind his back as he shoves himself into the corner. He then draws John carefully and gently down to him, and the two shift around to get comfortable and settle. Once John is settled comfortably against Greg’s chest, between his sprawled legs, Greg presses a gentle kiss to his temple and draws the throw from the back of the couch to cover John.

 

John hesitates, then, biting his lip. Unsure what this means, now. Where to go from here. Greg seems to read his mind, pressing another gentle kiss to his temple and tightening his hold.

 

“We’ll talk later, darlin’; don’t worry about it right this second. For now, just _rest_. Relax, sleep a bit, yeah? Before you fall over and pass out,” Greg tells him gently, his own voice sounding as exhausted as John feels.

 

John nods hesitantly before sighing softly, settling in against the man.

 

The both of them are asleep shortly after, both lulled by the warmth of the other and the soft sound of the other’s breathing.

 

~:*:~:*:~

 

When Sherlock finally, after running himself to near the end of even his rope, returns to Greg’s office, he can tell immediately that something is different. When glancing in through the glass, he cannot find either his flatmate or Lestrade. He smirks, thinking they may have gone on another of their coffee dates, but as he turns the knob on the door to Lestrade’s office, he finds it worryingly unlocked.

 

If—more like when—he left, Lestrade _always_ locked his office door.

 

Feeling something close to fear—but that he refuses to label as such—go through him, he pushes the door open quietly, mouth opening to say something or to call out, only for it to stay open in surprise when he catches sight of the sleeping figures on the couch.

 

He would deny it later, but he finds his face softening, a small, genuine smile stretching over his face as he takes in the sight of two of the most important people in his life, both dead to the world and— _finally_ , thank god—wrapped up in each other.

 

He’s known for _monthes_ about their feelings for one another; had honestly thought his prodding at John would clue the man in. But his flatmate was a careful man, valuing Lestrade’s presence in his life far more than any sort of physical attraction. The same could be said about Lestrade; he likely knew, as well, that John felt the same, at least on a subconscious level, but hadn’t wanted to risk their friendship on a chance.

 

Even if they both were feeling the same level of attraction and affection.

 

“ _Obvious_ ,” Sherlock mutters, on could even say _fondly_ , had anyone been around to hear it.

 

Quietly, carefully, he draws the blinds on the windows to Greg’s office before turning off the light to let them both sleep. As he locks the door and retreats back the way he came, he’s already planning out his ‘I told you so’ speech.


End file.
